All right, let's do this. Peanut, if you're staying in the room, no talking. Hello and welcome to the Photo Work Podcast, the talky and touchy feely version of my book, 40 photographers on process and Practice. Hello, everyone. I'm Sascha Wolff, recording from Woodstock, New York, joined as usual by my good friend and producer, Mr. Michael Chovendalton. Hello, Michael.
Hey there. I'm going to do my best not to cough.
If you do, it's okay.
Yes.
Because you will edit it out.
I would edit it out. That's true. It is true. Sometimes it's funny. I'm sure listeners don't know, but when people return from a cough, the tone of their voice changes a little bit and it takes a little while to sort of synchronize those cuts.
Right. Of course. The magic, all the magic that you're performing.
If I finish a half a sentence a little louder, you'll know why.
Right? Don't give your secrets away. What magician gives their secrets away?
That's right.
What we're talking about is you're quite sick.
Yes.
And upset about that and wishing you a speedy recovery. You've been struggling with a pretty bad respiratory situation. And just this episode's gonna be short in general because you gotta get back to bed. And Brian and I. Our guest today was my dear friend Brian Skipmot. And Brian was under the weather and I had Covid when we recorded.
Everyone. Everyone we know. Yes.
So this is the infirmary episode. Yep. Great conversation with Brian. Definitely shorter than usual, but a really nice conversation. And let's just get to that. We have one announcement, I think, and then.
We do. We do. We do. Pretty exciting announcement.
Yeah.
The addition of the photo work Senior Fellowship opens in about 12 days as of today, but it opens February 15th, closes March 15th. So that's a one month window to apply. And to find out more about that, visit Photoworks and click on Fellowships. And it's pretty exciting. I mean, this has all happened in a pretty short amount of time, these fellowships.
Yeah. You know, we didn't know, to be honest, whether we were going to be able to roll out the Senior Fellowship the year after the junior. We really wanted to, but a lot of stuff behind the scenes, including raising money obviously to support it. But thanks to all the folks who are supporting the foundation and, you know, the brain trust people who worked really hard to work out the details and the specifics. So grateful to everyone. And one other thing, Michael, I just want to say we had asked for year end donations from listeners and we could still Use your help. I mean, that's like a year long thing. Obviously, it's sort of, you know, end of year, gives you that little sort of excuse to berate, Berate your listeners, but.
Because it's the holidays.
Because it's the holidays. Right. I know those things don't really go together anyway, but, you know, please keep the donations coming. We do count on it. And I will also say that a lot of people did really step up and I'm super grateful. Thank you so much. It really, really helps with things like the additional fellowship and all the things that we're working on. So thanks, folks. Anyway, listen, I know you're really struggling and so let's get to it. Wonderful conversation with Brian Scutmot about his new book, Sons, and the process of putting this project and book together. And I'm so happy that Brian could join us.
Well, yeah, I mean, yes, like you said, it is short, but it is packed. It really is packed. I mean, Brian has this interesting connection to people in the landscape and the way he likes to travel in comparison to the way you don't like to travel. That comes up in conversation. Yep.
I love myself as a homebody.
Yeah, that's right. But also he has a connection, I think, to landscaping people that sort of harkens back a little bit to those 19th century, early 20th century landscape photographers who felt this sort of almost spiritual connection to the places and the people.
Oh, absolutely.
Yeah. And you could see it in the photos. And that's why I made that connection, because when he was talking, that connection became so obvious.
Oh, yeah. The grandeur of his photographs, for sure.
Exactly, exactly. Yeah. Also, I was surprised by some of Brian's answers to questions you had in terms of the relationship you have to photographing people as you get older and the idea of collaboration comes up. And I thought that was a really honest answer.
Very honest. Yep. No, I. I'm with you.
Yeah. There's a lot of good stuff. Short episode, but a lot of good stuff.
Yep, it's packed. All right. Well, Michael, from me to you and our listeners to you, because I know, thank to the lovely letters we get, how much people appreciate you. So I. I really, really hope you get better soon. I can't believe just as I got better, you went down.
But that's it. Yeah, we took turns.
Yeah. Domino's. Oh, by the way. And Taylor was really sick.
Yeah.
So.
No, no, it's. And we don't even. We're not even close.
We're not even together. I know. New Jersey, upstate New York and Mexico. Taylor's in Mexico. I don't know if people realize that. But anyway, yes. Somehow we've managed to.
Somehow, one of us is always going.
It's solidarity. I don't know. Yes.
All right, well, thank you.
Feel better. And Michael, if you don't mind, please take it away.
My pleasure. And here's your conversation with Brian Scutmot.
Brian Scoop Mott, welcome to the Photo Work podcast. It's great to have you back on. You were guest number one.
It's an honor.
I have to. I have to say that when I was getting ready to record with you today, you know, I thought, yeah, Brian was the first guest ever. But I couldn't. I was like, is that true or am I just remembering it that way because it was significant? Anyway, of course, I looked back to double check, and you were. You were the first guest ever on the podcast in July of 2020. 2020. So, yeah, welcome back. You are now the 90th guest.
You've done 90 episodes already. That's wild.
Isn't that insane?
It also is insane that time passes so quickly. But I talk about that way too much. But it's amazing.
No, I know.
2020 already.
Yep. Well, thank you for starting off the photo Work podcast and thank you for being back with me today. Much to discuss and as usual when I talk to you, because for folks who don't know you and I are good friends, Sasha Wolf Projects represents you. So. But of course, my head is spinning, not just with things I want to talk to you on the podcast about, but also a million personal and other things I want to just gossip with you about. But we'll put that aside for now. So. So let's start as we always do. Why don't you tell folks about yourself and your journey into photography, and then we'll spend quite a bit of time today talking about your extraordinary new publication called Sons of the Living. But first, give folks some background.
Sure. I grew up in the Houston area and I started taking pictures either in my late teens or early 20s, and I took some photography courses in college, and I started documenting life on the road in the bands I was playing at the time. I fell in love with the American landscape and the world out there. Yeah. Just really got into photography and wound up going to grad school for it. I got an MFA from the Hartford Art School in Connecticut and came out of that program with a book ready to publish. And then I met you. We started working together, and the past decade has been just focusing on photography and doing it For a living.
What was the first either body of work in exhibition form or in book form that, do you remember? That really was like, holy shit. This is something that I could see dedicating my life to. I mean, that's a pretty big leap. So do you remember what that was?
I do, and it's odd because it's not particularly like my work, but I saw the 1964 exhibition by Garry Winogrand. I think it was at a little museum in Nashville. Beautiful place, surrounded by trees. Maybe it was called the Cheekwood. I could be wrong, but I saw that. And then the book was there, too. His road trip from 1964. And the way I've talked about that was that I was really into movies around that time and other things that would take a lot of energy and planning. But when I saw that work, it didn't seem that far away from something that I could accomplish because he was just a guy roaming around and he had a 35 millimeter camera. And I thought it was doable.
You know, so much of your process in your artistic life is roaming around. I mean, is that something that you've always been predisposed toward? Because it's not for everyone? I mean, a big part of your life is on the road. And it's interesting because I really wanted to talk to you about this and ask you about it, and you just sort of led me right to it.
Lucky you. There we go.
Yeah. No, but I'm really curious about it because I couldn't do it. I'm an incredible homebody. I mean, I really don't like being away that much. It makes me feel ungrounded. And I'm really fascinated by people like you who seem to find solace out on the road and away from home. So have you always been like that, or is that like a muscle you had to develop?
I certainly miss home at times when I'm on the road, but generally I really like being away from home. And it's something that's just probably inherent in me, I would say. I've always liked seeing what's in the next town over, or. Yeah, I feel at home on the road, I'd say. And maybe as a curiosity that comes from youth and looking at things or. I don't know what.
Yeah, I don't know. I can't relate to it. Like, there's a sort of existential loneliness that I often feel when I'm away from home. And I'm sort of endlessly fascinated by people who seem to have the exact opposite feeling. Like that somehow they're gaining strength from it, and I don't understand that.
But when it comes to work and photography, I think there's something to be said for having a little bit of a lack of familiarity with what you're photographing. Obviously, you want to know the worlds that you're depicting. You don't want to be some helicopter kind of photographer who comes into a place that's unfamiliar. But there is a feeling you get whenever you're in a place in a little town you haven't really been to before, or you come across some area that's fascinating to you and you haven't seen it before. Your senses are heightened, and there's something about that level of curiosity and familiarity that lends itself to producing pictures.
I mean, I assume curiosity is just an essential part of this type of way of working. Is it something that you always feel. Do you ever. Does that ever sort of drop out and you wonder, where did that go? Because I can't imagine how you could work without that present.
I. I think I'm pretty naturally curious. As I've mentioned, I want to know what's around the next bend. I want to see what's happening in different places. I'm curious where someone is coming from or going to, who I meet on the road, but it's not always there. I think curiosity and inspiration are linked in terms of photography. And inspiration isn't something that always comes easy. It's a result of discipline or just going out and shooting whenever you're in the field. So sometimes on some days I don't feel that curious, but I still go out and look around anyway because I know something will emerge.
How do you handle if you're out on the road and that does wane? Is it just as you just said, you just push through it? Do you ever just say, you know what, Today's not the day to work? Or do you always sort of maintain a certain discipline, even if, for whatever reason, you're not in the right frame of mind?
Yeah, I'm the kind of person who will take a break and recharge and read in the hotel room or go to Denny's and drink coffee or something. So I'm disciplined to a degree, but I'm also human and very willing to rest a bit or just realize that today is not the day. My friend Curran talks about striking out a lot and the ratio of time spent versus what you get and how skewed it is in favor of pictures that don't work or days that feel not Wasted, but not productive. And that's just a reality of how I work.
I assume you're talking about Kern Heidelberg.
Yeah.
Is that something that you get more comfortable with as you get older? It's almost like depression. As you experience depression more and more, in some ways you can be a little bit more resilient because you know that it will pass. I mean, you have the faith that you've been here before and it will pass. Is it something that as you get older, you get more comfortable with? Well, you know, I can take this day off because I will be back. I will feel inspired and curious again tomorrow. Or do you? Are you in your hotel room panicking, thinking, holy shit, yeah, what if I don't?
No, Yeah, I definitely. I'm more comfortable with it these days. And when I was much younger and when I'd hit the road, I'd take a lot of pictures and I'd feel very productive. I was shooting roll film back then. It was medium format, but you still get 10 per roll. And I felt so productive, but none of them were that good. So I feel that later into my path on photography, I've become more comfortable choosing the battles, so to speak, and putting more faith into a scene or an experience than just shooting a whole lot. And on those days when it is, you know, I don't have the energy. I'm in the doldrums, then I do have the capacity to say, hey, tomorrow's a new one, and I'll figure it out. And then there are certain times when I've been out for like a week or two and just feel like I've got nothing. And I do understand that it's an accumulative thing and you can't catch all the fish in the river in one day. They'll come by eventually.
So, speaking of keeping the faith, I want to talk about the making of this new book and body of work, Sons of the Living, which is an extraordinary book. I'm incredibly proud to be in any way associated with someone who would produce something so magnificent and edifying about a certain part of the world, particularly the United States. This was a long time in the making. And I really want to talk about sort of a continuation of what we've been talking about, but in a more macro way. What does it feel like to work on something for so long and, you know, how do you know? Of course, when it's done, I just want to read a description.
Sure.
The book was published by an imprint, Trespasser Books, that you run with the wonderful Artist Matthew Genatempo, our friend and it came out a couple of months ago, sold out immediately. And telling this to folks who are listening, it will be available again in its second printing this spring. So hold tight, people. But here's the description. Sons of the Living is a photo book about the land and people along the highways of America's deserts. Photographed over the course of a decade in the American West's arid and sweeping terrain, this work depicts a human capacity for endurance. Skipmot offers an updated view of the open road that addresses a new era of uncertainty and anxiety amidst a backdrop of environmental decline, economic dispossession, and societal neglect. Sons of the Living draws attention to trouble on the road ahead and searches for our hope to withstand it. And one other or a couple other little things, details I want to mention that I think are very important. This book is almost 12 by 15 inches, so it is a big book. It has real presence, although because of the design, it's a very quiet presence, even though it's quite large. There are 90 tritone plates on uncoated paper and a cloth cover. It's quite dark. It's basically a dark gray black book. Not easy to even see the title. So it has this sort of quiet gravity. But let's talk about that decade and what you were thinking when you began the project and where the project wound up and how aligned those two things are. I want to just say that there are some really spectacular landscapes in this book, but as usual with you, the power, I think, rests in the portraits. The portraits are a collection of people who seems that they are in many ways quite marginalized, maybe living a difficult life. And as usual with you, you photographed them in a way that is extremely moving, where there's a real dignity that is sort of imparted. I don't know if it's imparted. That's maybe a condescending way of putting it. You find with them this is a collaboration, and together there is a kind of dignity that is afforded to these folks who may not have much or may not have anything. And that's really an extraordinary, I think, gift that you have, the way you photograph people. And I know it has very much to do with the way you interact with them. And so I want to talk about all of this. So when you started the project, is this the project you thought you were making? How does it all begin?
It began by. I did something no photographer has ever done before. I went on a road trip. I just, yeah, I hit the road because I was always Interested in the people that I'd meet out there. And in the past, I had been on the road again, touring in punk bands. And then on my first book, Graze the Mountain Sends, it was more about small towns and kind of not the movement of the road, but the stagnation of small towns.
Right.
But it was still a road book.
And it feels more fertile. Right. There's a fertility first of all. Gray's is in color, but there's a sense of greenery and fertility. And it's funny because, you know, Gray's is quite tough in its depiction of contemporary America, but Sons takes it a step further, and there's a real arid quality. Someone who wrote about. I can't remember who it was, but someone who wrote about Sons described the landscape as. The way you shot it as looking exhausted, which I think is just a fantastic word for this work. So sorry, Please continue.
Oh, no, you're good. That reminds me of someone who wrote a while ago that it. What did he say? My work looks like it was taken after a tidal wave hit or something. But.
Yeah, but.
Yeah. Even though Gray's was about small towns and not the road, I was on the road a lot. And I would always come across people who weren't the right character for Grays, but who I was interested in nonetheless. At the end of shooting Grays, I picked up this hitchhiker named Joe, and he was outside a little town in New Mexico called Magdalena. And it's a town. I don't know if they're still having the same troubles, but the water was running out and he was headed to the Permian oil fields to try to find work. But he hadn't any experience in the industry. He was just getting in the car and going. And I think that experience made me realize that there was so much narrative and an emotional possibility in the characters you'd meet just on the side of the roads. So he was someone who really influenced me to go in this direction. But, yeah, I took a road trip and I thought I'd take pictures of the desert and pick a lot of hitchhikers and meet people in small towns and just make work. It wasn't any kind of novel concept or wasn't trying to reinvent the wheel by any means. I didn't know what I was going to get back then, and I couldn't have predicted that it turned out the way that it did because I think I wrote about this in photo work, and we've talked about it before, but. But photography relies on what you find in the world and a photo project will take its shape as you move.
Along that incredibly, you know, arid quality that exists in this collection. At what point do you start thinking, you know, I'm gonna shape this. This is a very important sort of part of it. This feeling of dryness, of lack of bounty, of natural bounty. At what point do you start saying to yourself, yeah, this feeling is key?
That was at the beginning because I knew I wanted to set the work in the southwest of the United States, which is largely desert. It's a vast place that doesn't have much timber, doesn't have much water, and it's a harsh place, you could say. And I think that that that relates to a metaphoric interpretation of my work. In addition to the harshness of the land itself and what people encounter when they're trying to travel through it by hitchhiking or trying to get across that landscape that doesn't have shade and the sun beats down and they don't even have cars. I think that a lot of the people I meet on the road are on their way somewhere and they're hoping for some verdant place in the distance and that may or may not await. And then also, I can't lie, I did want to reference the Bible in a variety of ways that I won't go into too much. But so much of scripture is set in the desert, a dry land where souls thirst for water and people are searching and people are suffering and. And they're dealing with the turmoils of life on earth and trying to find God. So I think that photographing in the desert and trying to make a body of work about what afflicts the human heart is served by that landscape. Because I don't want my work to just be about social documentary issues. It's not just that approach. It's not just about people living on the road, experiencing hardship, and it's not just about environmental issues and what we do to the landscape. To me, I want the work to go farther and get at something more about how humanity endures on such a fucked up world. And then in terms of reoccurring themes in my work over time and the representation of the American West. I've always been interested in the distance between the historic, almost mythic promise of the American west and the realities that are actually faced there. So throughout history, so many people went west in search of prosperity to go find new horizons, to like, find something better for their lives. And then upon arrival, so many people found that, no, we're not in the promised land. And there is no bounty here. And those dreams that, that were hoped for that don't exist.
So you're working on this for 10 years. How do you know when a project like this is done? Or is it just a matter of saying enough's enough and you know, of course there's no natural ending. And does it help to have a collaborator like Matthew Genatempo around? Was. I actually don't know the answer to this question. I love it when I have a question I don't know the answer to and I'm talking to someone I know really well. But you know, was there someone else, Matthew or whoever, who'd said to you enough, let's give it its final shape and put it out into the world?
Yeah. Well, I was always hesitant to say that it was a big 10 year project because it feels like so much time. And I did put in the book that it was 154 days. I did the math because I had a digital file for every day that I shot film. So I was able to count this. So I averaged roughly two weeks a year. So I just felt a little bashful about it being a decade's worth of work and only 90 photos. But it was beneficial because I would normally photograph in the spring and then maybe again in the fall, like a week trip here and there and all of that time in between, especially over the years, let me understand what the work was doing. And I grew as a person and as a photographer and I just feel like I got better at things when it comes to deciding when it's finished. It's always tricky because I love photography and I love moving through the world and witnessing things. And I think after someone finishes a project like this where it does feel kind of momentous or like, oh, finally I closed this chapter of my life. There's, there's an inclination to say that I put it all out and left it all out on the field and just like really spent all the fuel in the tank, but that's really not true. I could have done this for another decade easily because it's what I want to do with my life. So maybe there will be a Sons part two or something. I mean, all my work is sort of similar in terms of how I look at the land and people and these vestiges of the American dream and whatnot. But no, it just came to a close because it had been a long time and I felt like I could have a pretty solid book. There were some things that I wanted to do that I didn't get to do with this project, but it was just time to wrap it up. Matthew. It's funny because we used to share work with each other throughout our projects all the time. Like, literally, we'd be on the road and I'd take like an iPhone picture and send it to him. Before I took a film photo on my 4x5 and say, what do you think, dude? Should I waste some film on this or what? And I think our respect has grown for each other so much that I think now we're among the last to see the good ones. You know what I mean? It's like wanting to finish the painting before you show the most important audience audience member. So in terms of, like, how it went along, Matthew certainly saw a lot of work, but there was a lot of stuff I just kind of withheld until I could put it into a context of the body of work that would impress him or something, you know? But he is. He is a really important guy in my life because not just through collaboration and editing books and doing stuff with Trespasser, but just having a friend that inspires you, like, not to compete or anything. It's not about that. It's just knowing that he's doing really great shit, and I want to do good shit, too. So.
Yeah, no, I think that that's really moving and important. Is there any. Can you identify any way in which you interact with folks who you wind up collaborating with and photographing? Now, that's different than when, say, you were doing Grayson or when you first started this project. Has there been any? And this isn't. I'm not looking for a particular answer, but I'm just curious. Is there any way that you interact now that's different than when you were younger?
I'm sure there is, but I can't think of anything too specific. I mean, it's been a long time, so I'm sure I've changed as a person and as a photographer, but I'm failing to think of examples.
Well, I guess what I'm. I'll lead you a little bit. I guess what I'm wondering is, you know, when you started out, you were a young man, and now you're still a young man compared to me, but you're, you know, you're more. You're older. And I just wonder if that gives you a certain parody with some of your subjects.
Oh, yeah.
That you didn't have when you were younger.
It's funny. I was in Australia, did a lecture, and a guy said, I didn't. I was Surprised to see you're not an old bearded man, because he would think.
And you were like, but wait, I am sort of an old bearded man.
I'm getting, getting there. Okay. So, yeah, I will say that whenever I was young, there was, like a feeling that I'd be more accepted because I was just this young, weird artist kid that was doing some little art project. Yeah, come into the bar, kid. Do it. Get whatever you need. Right. A German guy just came to town, Valentin. He's been working on a road trip project and he's very young. I think he's like 23 years old and he looks like it. And he also has a German accent. And I was talking about what a benefit that would be because you're just this stranger to these people who are, like, unfamiliar with the German coming through. And there's an acceptance that they probably have because, oh, he's like, interested in us as if we're exotic or something. But whenever I'm there, I'm in my pickup and I'm just. Yeah, I look like these people, you know? Yeah, you do. It's not the same. So I don't know. I don't know what that means in terms of building trust or relationship. I would say that I'm very skeptical of the word collaboration in terms of.
Yeah, tell me. I know, I've used it a few times.
That's fine. I think it is collaborative. But a lot of photographers talk about their work as collaborations whenever the photographer ultimately is the one who has all the power and calls all the shots and holds the cards, and we're authors in a way, and it's up to us at the end of the day. So sometimes I guess that just doesn't feel like the most accurate way to describe things. Although it's still. Although it still is collaborative. You know, it's not like I'm treating people as actors. They still get to be themselves and present themselves in a way that makes sense.
Yeah, I mean, I use the word now to offer artists a way of. Yeah. Sort of slipping out of that slippery place of power and authorship. But I agree with you. And, you know, I think collaboration is a matter of degree. So.
Yeah, I agree. It's not like it's one or the other people I work with making these portraits do get to be them. Their authentic selves in a lot of ways. But at the end of the day.
Yeah, as much as they want. Right? I mean.
Yeah, Yeah.
I mean, one thing that really strikes me and the reason I was asking you about how you feel now is because you do look more like when I first met you, you looked like a young man, but you look more like one of your subjects now. And in some ways, I just. I can't imagine that doesn't have an effect on the people who you're meeting. I don't. You know, I would assume that in some ways they'd be more trusting. But maybe, as you said, there's something that was disarming about being the sort of quirky kid with the camera. I hadn't even thought of that.
Maybe it's both, because I do. It's not like I feel like some barrier between me and anyone else. I guess it's just whenever you see a dude in his 40s who's like a grown man just out there with a camera working on some art project, it's a little more peculiar. Or people might be more skeptical of you. But that said, I do think that there is something about how I look on the road or who I am, because I'm basically living out of a tent and out of my car and just wandering around, and I'm a tumbleweed running into other tumbleweeds. And I can make deep connections with people in a relatively short amount of time and try to get great photography. So, yeah, there's maybe some aspect of it that rings true in terms of your hypothesis on that. I do think that there's something to be said about just kind of finding bonds with people. I don't know my process. Sometimes I'm camping out with guys and drinking with them and eating hot dogs and stuff or whatever. It's just like, yeah, we're just guys hanging out. I don't know.
Yeah. So how do you think about the weird part of your art self that, you know, there's so much, I think, integrity that goes into making of the work and the process itself. And then all of a sudden it switches into this strange place where pictures go up on a wall and they're for sale and they have a price on them that most people can't afford. How do you reconcile those things or think about them?
I suppose I try not to think about it too much.
Yeah, I don't blame you.
Yeah, it doesn't feel great.
It's weird, right?
Yeah.
And I'll just say for the record that I, as the person who sells the pictures, it's weird for me, too. I mean, it's very strange to be having a conversation with someone one minute about the emotion and the struggle of moving through, creating a body of work that's not easy. And by that I mean that the work itself may be about something that's difficult or upsetting, as we've discussed with your work, and certainly I represent many artists where this is the case, and then to turn around, I mean, I'm quite blessed to be in a position where the majority of the sales that we make through Sasha Wolf projects are to museums. And so that is obviously, you know, a different feeling. But, yeah, it's definitely an odd.
Well, I think also we should give credit where it's due to a number of collectors who buy art to be benefactors more than collectors.
Yes, thank you. I agree with that.
A lot of photography collectors do want something that will return on their investment or they can put in a flat file and sell later. But many do it because they want to see more good work into the world, and they know that.
That's right.
Print sales fund artists. I have a collector in Europe, great guy named Jethro who said, like, look, I buy your work because I want to see you do more work. It's not because he wants some coveted jewel in his collection. It's because he knows that this helps artists say what they want to say.
Right. And we have a collector of your work here in the United States who's been extremely supportive. We're blessed. Yeah, that's definitely a big and important. For all you collectors listening out there, it's very much appreciated. So tell me about the process of making this book and some of the decisions that went into the design choices and the materiality of it and how you got there, because it is really specific.
Yeah. The design is meant to be very understated. It's about the pictures, although I think our designer, Cody Halthom, did a gorgeous job. But a lot of design is kind of getting out of the way. I think it's just letting the pictures breathe in this really beautiful form. So we wanted the book big, because if you're shooting large format, you should make the book big so you get the benefit of that big negative. Also, the American west is such an immense place. I wanted the double trucks is what we call them, but where the picture goes over the gutter. So you compromise a line going through the picture for the scale of the picture. That was important to me because, I mean, there's so much to say about what the landscapes mean to me in terms of a metaphor for human experience and an indifferent world. But to me, it's like having those landscapes really big was important. And we did that with the scale of the book. And then, like, My other books, there are divider pages that I think of as, like, the gap between stanzas and poetry. I think of these divider pages as like a fade to black or a cut to black in cinema and then coming back in on a new day. And if you see the book, you notice that I have these pictures of headlights going through landscapes, and it's this descent into night. So each stanzas is, what I call them, ends in a photo that is kind of a descent in the night. And you see these headlights that I think of, like this symbol of the human presence in something spiritual moving through the land, and then it goes into night again. So that kind of rhythm was really important to me, to have that motif repeat. And then we have a new day with new characters to kind of look into. And then trying to think of other things about the design and the feeling of the book itself. That's important. Oh, I'm really big on Uncoated paper. We had Thomas Bollier do the production and he wanted to do coated paper for the printing, just because the tone of the tones would be so much better on coated paper. But I just thought that the kind of tactile feel and the whole vibe on Uncoated would be better. And he worked really hard on the separations to get the density that was required to have the pictures printed with such a beautiful richness. And Thomas went on press to Istanbul and worked with the printers to get the density, like, really, really perfectly dialed in. And I couldn't be happier with the printing. I think he did a tremendous job. So. Yeah, and then we had just one piece of text that's this little kind of poetic fictional paragraph that my friend Travis wrote. And Travis had come on the road with me a lot, and I thought that that gave it a perfect voice at the end to kind of embody maybe someone who was on the road and raise questions and offer this poetic and philosophical view.
Well, you're also a big poetry reader, and I know someone who really loves poetry, so it's nice to sort of have that nod to something else that you feel passionately about. So what's next? Anything on the horizon?
Oh, just a bunch of stuff for Sons at this point. I'll be going to wait. No, sorry. The next thing is coming up is there are two pieces from Grays, the Mountain Sends and the Rijksmuseum. They're doing a big survey photography, American photography survey show. And I'll go there in a couple weeks. And then what else do I have going on? And then I'M kind of curating a show in Buenos Aires with my friend Pablo Caboto, and he wanted my help finding some great photographers to show down there. So we have that in the works and that'll open in June, and then I'll hopefully be back in Europe for the fall. I think I'm teaching. No, not teaching. I'm reviewing portfolios. Brad Farahelm. And then during the summer, I'd like to get some shooting done in Texas and elsewhere.
Well, and when do we think the second printing of Suns is going to be is going to land?
I make no promises on that. I don't know.
I don't know.
I mean, hopefully, yeah, hopefully not too late.
By a pad, probably.
Probably. Probably not. Yeah. I'm sorry.
Yeah. Okay. We'll discuss that when we stop recording, but we will be at a pad so folks can see some of your work there. I'm crossing over my two. The two Sashas now are crossing over in this podcast. Anyway, well, Brian, thank you so much for being with me today and for talking about the new book. Beautiful book, Sons of the Living. And yeah, thank you.
Thank you. And thanks for how you talked about the book. And it really means a lot to hear that. And yeah, just thanks a bunch.
Of course. Okay, babe, be well.
Got it.
More soon.
Cheers.
Okay, bye.
Photo Work with Sasha Wolfe is a production of the Photo Foundation. Executive producer is Sasha Wolf and the associate producer is Taylor Selsbach. The show is also produced and edited by me, Michael Chovendalt in a real photo show. Music is by J. Walter Hawks. If you like the show and wish to find out more about the foundation, please visit PhotoArch foundation and be sure to subscribe and review with all the stars on your listening platform.